Wednesday, January 30, 2013

The dog squatted down and shit right there on the rug! Right
there in front of us, as if on cue. By shear perfection of comedic timing, it
was my most memorable moment as a pet owner.

We’d only had Hanna a couple weeks. She was a rescue
whippet, twitchy and needy and nervous all the time. But in those first two
weeks she’d been so good, so obedient. Then came a Sunday dinner at my parents
and we brought Hanna along. I stood in the living room with my aunt explaining
Hanna’s brilliance, how she never barked and never had an accident on the rug.
And just as I was bragging on her – at that very moment, she (Hanna, not my
aunt) squatted down and shit right there on the rug in front of us, looking up
with a sorrowful apology in her eyes that would become so familiar in the years
ahead.

Hanna, looking worried. Her standard expression.

Hanna only barked a few times in all the years we owned her.
She slept 20 of the 24 hours in a day, followed you around like a shadow for 3
hours and 50 minutes of what was left, and in that final 10 minutes when you
let her out to do her business, she rocketed around the yard like a bullet on
crack.

In all my years as a pet owner, Hanna was our only dog. Ours
has been a house with a succession of cats.

Rudy came to me when I was single, left by friends who were
moving out west. His original name was Yoko, but when my ex-wife came into my
life, she renamed him Rudy. He was a Siamese cat and smart as hell.
Loved that cat.

Our first house in Noblesville was the big white Victorian
the city tore down for the City Hall parking lot. We were so poor we pretty
much turned off the heat at night. To stay warm, Rudy would slip under the
covers up by the pillows, then burrow down to our feet. He’d get overheated and
burrow back out after awhile. Sometime you’d wake in the night and find him
curled around your head on the pillow.

One cold winter night Rudy was burrowing out and got the
covers and my ex’s flannel nightgown mixed up, crawling up her gown without
noticing. She woke with a frantic cat trapped against her chest, and so she was
immediately frantic, unbuttoning the neck so he could get out.

I stayed home from work one day when my son Jack was 4 or 5
years old. During the morning we found Rudy had died where he often slept,
curled up under my bed. He’d gone peacefully. I wrapped Rudy in an old blanket,
dug a hole behind the garage and buried him, making a grave marker from a
landscaping timber, spelling “Rudy” on it with a router. Jack watched all of
this with fascination. When his older brother Cal got off the school bus, Jack
led him to the grave and told him all about Rudy’s death and burial. Then he
asked me if we could dig up Rudy so Cal could see.

Orion was our next cat and he was the baddest motherfucker to
ever hunt the 1100 block alley between Maple & Cherry. He was a
yellow-orange tabby with stunningly vibrant colors, had the heft of a smallish
dog and looked like he’d been lifting weights. He always stayed near me and
shared the couch each night when I relaxed with my gin and tonic. He roamed the
neighborhood during the day but ran to the back door each night when I called
his name.

Orion, being his bad self.

If I found him a block away and he followed me home, I’d ask
him questions along the way. “How was your day, Mr. Cat?” “Meow,” he would
respond, trotting along beside me. As long as I asked questions, he would meow
in response.

And he was forever killing things. On a warm summer night
when my daughter Sally was small, she heard a tiny, pathetic squealing in the
back yard. She peered from the kitchen windows searching the yard. I went out
to investigate and found Orion standing over a dying rabbit he was in the
process of killing. I went back in and lied to Sally, “Orion saved us from a
rat. He fought it in the back yard and thankfully Orion won.

And though Sally was our animal-lover and took to every
creature she ever knew, Orion hated her. Perhaps he kept her at bay so she
wouldn’t dress him up in doll clothes. Once as he sat upright on the kitchen
bench, about eye-level to Sally, she came close and reached out her hand to
him. He swatted hard at her palm and she ran to me calling, “Daddy, Orion just
gave me a high-five!” How could I tell her he really wanted to scratch her eyes
out? But she learned. Several times when she tried to approach him face to face
he reared back with his right and coldcocked her upside the head with an open
paw and bared claws. She’d come running to me in tears, stunned that an offer
of kindness could result in such needless violence.

So Sally got a snuggable kitten named Nina, and though cute
at first, Nina grew into the most disgusting cat I’ve ever known.

Nina was bullied by Orion. This kept her away from the food
dish until he was done eating. So when Nina got her chance she gulped food in a
desperate rush. Over-filled with food, she would soon vomit. She was on an
unforgiving binge and purge cycle, so much so that even when Orion was outside and
she could eat in leisure, she’d binge and purge anyway out of sheer force of habit.

But somehow she still managed to become morbidly obese: a
waddling, gelatinous, furry ball with legs and a tiny head.

You know your cat is too fat when it can’t lick it’s own
ass. Sometimes after she threw-up, she’d lie down and actually try to clean
herself down there, perhaps to take the taste of vomit out of her mouth. She’d
strain and struggle like a weakling trying to do a sit-up, but just couldn’t
reach it. This is the sort of
thing that gets a pet owner like me thinking about a one-way trip to the vet.

But one day after being let out to play in the back yard,
she just never came home.

And that of course is the hardest part about having pets:
they die.

Orion eventually got sickly thin. Those muscular shoulders went
bony. The sheen left his once brilliant coat, and he didn’t hurry in when I
called him at bedtime. I got to picking him up in the back yard at night and
carrying him inside. But he’d still meow back if I asked him a question. Returning
home from a week’s vacation, the friend who was tending Orion said she hadn’t
seen him at all the day before we returned. I found him laying on a step halfway
up the basement stairs. He was alive, but too weak to go any further. It’s
heartbreaking to see an old friend that way.

And that silent dog Hanna – the one that never barked? When
her time came for a one-way trip to the vet, my ex-wife held her close while
the vet administered the shot. As the drug pumped through her veins Hanna began to bark like she’d
never barked before.

Which reveals another truth about these animals we bring
into our lives. They know, see and understand things we hardly suspect. And
wondering at that mystery is perhaps the heart of the beauty of the
relationship we share with them.

Wednesday, January 23, 2013

This is an excerpt from a much longer piece I wrote about my grandparents for the 2012 edition of the Polk Street Review. To read the full version, stop by The Wild bookstore on the courthouse square in Noblesville. The book is filled with short stories, poetry, photography and essays from Noblesville folks.

My grandparents, Alvie and
Marguerite lived in Bluffton, the seat of Wells County, just south of Ft.
Wayne. Their home was a three-bedroom ranch on Stodgill Road among a typical
strip of ranch houses, the kind that sprung up on the edges of Midwestern towns
after World War II, the kind with deep front lawns and no sidewalks. They’d had
it built themselves. They paid for everything upfront, with Alvie meeting
contractors and lumber company deliverymen, paying them on the spot with cash –
money carefully saved from his career as a postal worker.

Their home had a lush lawn
that Alvie tended with the professional determination of a golf course greens
keeper. During childhood visits I often sat on his riding mower in the garage,
pretending to drive or puzzling over the heavy roller the mower pulled around
the yard to make the lawn as smooth as a floor laid with deep shag carpet.

One morning when I was maybe 6
or 7 years old, Alvie took me to the bowling alley where his buddies met for
coffee and a few frames. While he was in the restroom his retired friends
enlisted me in a practical joke. They prepped me with the answer to a question.
When Alvie returned, one of them asked, “Kurt, are you a Republican or a
Democrat?” I responded as prompted, “Democrat.” I still recall the hoots of
laughter and the scowl on Alvie’s face.

It was prophetic. I am a
Democrat to this day.

My father told me once Alvie
disliked FDR for the New Deal, for growing government and making people
dependent upon it. When I pondered that as a young man, I figured it must have
been easier to cast such judgments when you had a safe, government, Post Office
job during the great depression.

I recall Alvie’s disapproval
of comic books and wasting time and his narrowed eye and menacing growl when I
said once I didn’t like the food served at dinner. I ate it.

He was raised in a German Apostolic farm family, the third youngest of fourteen
children. Their rural community spoke a Swiss-German brogue. At church, men sat
on one side of the aisle and women on the other. Once as a child he was so
frustrated with having nothing of his own and no way to have fun, he stole a
chicken from his own parents’ farm, sold it to a huckster wagon and bought
something for himself alone. Alvie left school at sixteen as all the kids in
his family did, but after a year away, convinced his parents to let him go
back. He graduated high school in 1924, left the farm and moved to town, got a
job at a gas station, bought a motorcycle, left the Apostolic church and became
a Methodist.

As a child I tried to imagine
him on a motorcycle, but the portly 60-something-year-old man with wire-framed
glasses that I knew didn’t seem much like the motorcycle type. More like the
type to disapprove of them.

But he wasn’t always a sour
puss. There was ice cream after dinner at his urging. On occasions he’d rope a
sheet of plywood to the back of the lawn tractor and pull us kids around the
yard. At a Meyer family reunion in Bluffton he caught me reaching for a third
Orange Crush from a galvanized feed trough filled with ice and bobbing soda pop
bottles. He nodded and winked, “Aw, go ahead. Who’s counting?” Fishing with him
in the tall grass along the Wabash at the end of Stogdill Road, I threw a rock
in the water, lost my balance and fell in, or as Alvie put it, “You forgot to
let go of the rock.”

He took me home, put me in the
bathtub, and as he scrubbed the river mud from my hair made me promise not to
tell Marguerite what had happened. “She might not let us fish anymore,” he
worried.

When my father visited his
parents on Stogdill Road in the years after he graduated college, sometimes
Alvie would offer to show him something in the garage. Once there, Alvie pulled
a bottle of Manischewitz wine from a workbench hiding place and they passed it
back and forth.

For some-40 years Alvie had
doggedly worked and methodically saved for retirement, but cruel- ly, by the
time retirement arrived the tremors of Parkinson’s arrived with it. Still, he
and Mar- guerite took a train trip across Mexico. It was the first of what they
hoped would be many trips. With a gentle palsy in his hands and mild shuffle to
his gait, he was an easy target. A pickpocket stole his wallet. Later, not
feeling well and needing a doctor, they couldn’t find one. That helplessness
scared Alvie out of traveling again, though he’d saved his whole life to do it.

He would later tell my father,
“I should have spent more of my money along the way and enjoyed life, instead
of saving it all for retirement.”

Alvie corresponded with
doctors near Jacksonville, Florida where groundbreaking work was being done on
Parkinson’s. He had two surgeries in Ann Arbor, Michigan. He was sedated, but
kept awake as doctors drilled a hole in his skull. They put a probe in his
brain and moved it about, looking to touch a place that would still the tremors
in his hands. It didn’t work.

In relentless steps the
Parkinson’s stole his quality of life, the ability to function independently
and perhaps even his will to live. As his condition worsened, he and Marguerite
often took slow, plodding walks near the Stogdill Road house. She would steady
and support him with her arm wrapped tightly around his. On one such walk he
told her, “I wish I had two tickets to heaven.” Marguerite asked, “Why two?” He
replied, “Because I don’t want to go alone.”

But he did go alone.

Parkinson’s drove Alvie into
near silence and a wheelchair. The last time he spoke to me I was eleven years
old. He was lying flat on his back on my parents’ bed where he’d been laid to
nap during a holiday gathering. This was a time when he seldom spoke, and when
he tried, I usually couldn’t understand him. But as I covered him with a
blanket, he said in perfectly clear diction, “You’re a good boy, Kurt.”

I had so often recoiled at his
repulsive infirmities, I felt unworthy of the compliment.

With his muscles so weak he
sometimes choked on food. Marguerite would force her fingers into his mouth to
clear his windpipe. Early one morning as she fed him, he began to choke, but
this time clenched his teeth so she couldn’t get her fingers into his mouth.

And that’s how Alvie died; he
choked to death in a wheelchair while Marguerite tried to save him.

I had never seen my father
cry. But at Alvie’s funeral in the Bluffton Methodist Church, when the minister
got to the part that reads, “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the
shadow of death, I will fear no evil,” I heard a chilling wail of sorrow rise
up and fill the sanctuary. It was my father. Seeing my dad cry, made me cry.
But even though I was a young boy I understood I wasn’t crying for Alvie,
because I didn’t fully understand what death meant. I was crying for my father.

My dad told me later,
“Funerals are not for the dead. They’re for the living.”

Wednesday, January 16, 2013

Leaving
a sales training class at my company’s corporate offices I passed the open
doorway to a friend’s office and decided to duck in and check on her. I wound
my way through a maze of cubicles and found her on the phone. Radiant sunshine
from a brilliant blue December sky washed through a window and into her
workspace. She turned and smiled at me. Light reflected all around, sparkling
off her necklace and earrings.

Heather
hung up the phone.

When
we speak we are usually comparing notes, so when I asked, “How’s it going?” she
immediately described how things were going now that she moved back in with her
husband. I was happy for her. She’s been seeking resolution in her marriage for
a long time, and this felt like a step closer. No uncertainty reflected from
her face. Only peace.

This
comparing of notes began a year and a half ago on a summer evening. Both
working late, we found ourselves on computers side by side in the office workroom.
When the chitchat started we were acquaintances, but by conversation’s end we’d
both shed a few tears at relating that we were separated from our spouses. Both
of us were the ones who pulled the trigger, the ones who took action to confront
marital unhappiness.

During
two years of separation and impending divorce, I kept an ear open for others in
this situation and learned so much comparing notes with them. Our experiences
are so similar.

The
first in a troubled marriage to reach the end of their rope suffers a unique
kind of pain, a pain so black it radiates no colors, and so no one can seem to
see it. They are often treated by in-laws as if they died, friends seldom call
to offer support, their children seldom author loving, encouraging notes and
texts, friends who don’t understand are quick with biting comments. Some are
trying to punish them for upsetting their ordered world, but most often, it’s
simply because it appears the one who left went to get something else, and so
now must be happy.

From
comparing notes, I know that’s almost never true. The pain it took to get to
the end of that rope was kept hidden amid private hopes it would all work out.
And when they reveal their own pain, transmitting pain to a spouse and often
children, they get isolated, ignored and shunned when they need support the
most. And that accumulated pain remains invisible to those around them. Only
the pain caused to others by falling from the end of the rope is sympathized
with.

Heather
and I began having an occasional lunch and from time to time sent each other
encouraging text messages. Without people like her who understood what I was
going through, I wonder where my mental health would be right now.

At
a big, drunken karaoke party this past summer Heather and I sang a duet
together; “You’re The One That I Want,” from Grease. As we skipped off the
stage I caught a glimpse of her estranged husband in the crowd, standing alone,
jealous and hurting. In the months after, I sought him out wherever I found him
– grocery store, local theater, downtown bar, and spoke to him so he could see
I wasn’t a threat.

I
have compared notes with so many people in the past two years.

At
a bar a year ago, a friend approached me and nodded toward the corner, “See my
friend Jenna over there? She’s leaving her husband and going through a tough
time. I left that bar stool next to her empty for you. You’re in the thick of
the same thing and you’re a Realtor. Maybe you can help her find a place to
live and offer some words of comfort in the process.”

I
did, and Jenna and I became good friends. The painful road I watched her walk
took my breath away time and time again. She remains one of the most amazingly resilient
people I know.As a child, I saw a dog get hit by a car. It ran across our lawn violently thrashing about in agony. I often thought of that as I watched Jenna's husband appear at the bar that spring, fresh from the concussion of loss, causing one ugly scene after another, willfully thrashing about, reflecting misery off the fractured shards of his broken heart onto her . . . and me.

Back
at Heather’s cubicle, she nodded gratefully toward an email open on the glowing
screen. The brilliant sunlight reflected off tears welling-up in her eyes as
she smiled. She sighs and takes a deep, ragged breath. “When we separated, my
mother-in-law just stopped talking to me.” She quiets to a whisper, so overcome
by emotion it’s all she can muster. “She had been one of my best friends ever.
It was so hard to be shunned that way. But my husband recently asked her to
communicate with me and she has, emailing me to ask about my new job.”

How
typical Heather’s separation story is. Family members quickly circle the wagons
around their child or sibling. And in doing so, without realizing, they’re
withdrawing support from the very relationship they want to survive. This plants
new resentments, adding to the conflict. When the relationship has fewer
supporters, it’s less likely to survive.

But
we’re the “perpetrators.” You’re not supposed to be on our side. You’re
supposed to side with the “victim.” A life’s consumption of storybook, TV and
film plot lines hardwires us to reflexively identify the perpetrators and victims,
the antagonists and protagonists. That way we know who to side with. Maybe
that’s why we perpetrators seek each other and find common threads of comforting
light, emitted through shared circumstances.

“Misery
loves company?” Maybe. It also heals in the iridescent sparkle of empathy.

In
my years teaching photography, I always began by explaining to students that we
don’t really see the objects around us. Instead our eyes perceive light reflecting
off of them. If an object reflects all colors, we perceive white. If it absorbs
all colors, we perceive black. And objects that reflect varying amounts of
light we can perceive with all the colors of the rainbow.

We
are all like that in life, reflecting peace, love, sadness, anger, loss. And
like light, some of what we emit is absorbed by those around us and some bounces
off others and reflects back to us. Sometimes we’re saddened by what doesn’t
bounce back - what we loose in the blackness of others or what people can’t see
in the blackness in us. And sometimes we don’t’ recognize the wavelengths we’re
putting out and the colors that reflect back to us are painful to acknowledge.

Pragmatists
call it, “just deserts.” Buddhists call it “karma.” Calvinists call it, “God’s
will.” Whatever you call it, it
can’t be denied. We are all reflecting light. This reality screams at you when
you reach the end of your marital rope.

My
divorce was final on December 14th, but over Christmas I scanned
through Facebook status updates and see several posts from Heather about the happy,
healing Christmas she’s having back in her home with her husband and children.
I can’t help but smile for her.

Tuesday, January 8, 2013

“What would an African family especially appreciate?” I
asked my friend Bryan. He smiled and led me through his liquor store to a
bottle of Amarula, a chocolate-colored creamy liqueur he tells me is a bit like
Bailey’s, made from the South African amarula fruit. There is the image of an
elephant on the label and below that, a cluster of three amarulas. They look
like lemons.

Emily's house is in a modest subdivision just off State Road 37.
It’s where she lives with her brother Allan. Once through the door I hand Emily
the Amarula and am met by the smells of exotic foods and the sound of African
pop music playing from a TV sound system. I knew there was a family gathering
of sorts, but am astonished to realize I’ve been invited to her family’s
Christmas gathering.

Emily grew up in Kenya, moved to Botswana when she was 14, lived
in South Africa as well and immigrated to the U.S. when she was 16 after her
parents won a Green Card Lottery. She’s an amazingly creative artist and small
business owner. I met her at a monthly dinner circle in my neighborhood and she
contributed a children’s story to a little literary journal I cofounded with a
friend. She is slender and lovely, with high cheekbones, a broad, generous
smile that laughs easily, signature gold and black eyeglasses and an
ever-changing assortment of hairstyles. She’s the kind of friend so endearing
that when she asks you to stop by and meet her family, you drop what you’re
doing and go.

The kitchen is filled with activity and I’m introduced to
Emily’s “mum,” Margaret. She’s grilling chapati flatbread in a skillet and extends
her free, flour-covered hand to me. I meet to a broad assortment of
Emily’s family, including her sister, Irene and brother, Allan.

There is stew in a crockpot, bowls of roasted meat, rice,
and cooked cabbage on the kitchen island.

As I’m introduced to Emily’s father, George, he’s sitting on
the couch syncing his iPhone and computer and ignoring a college football game projected
from a large flat-panel TV. We hit it off right away. We talked about London in
the 1980s, a decade when we both studied there, and about my work and his while
we drink bottles of Rolling Rock.

George is an I.T. project manager for Wal-Mart in
Bentonville Arkansas. He describes the details of right-on-time deliveries and
the way his computer systems keep stores stocked but not overstocked.

I love conversations about philosophy, politics, and
religion with people from backgrounds foreign to mine. We talk at length about
the damage centuries of missionaries did to African culture. George explained
how the transition worked in Kenya when blacks took over governing from the
white minority. Before long we’re pleasantly debating the reconciliation
process that succeeded in South Africa and failed tragically in Zimbabwe. I’m
kind-of amazed at how much of that history I remember from my 3+ decades as
a news junkie.

Family members continue to arrive and the house is filling
with conversations, most in English but some melt from time to time into other
languages I cannot place.

Emily, Irene, and their friend Mirri are gathered in the
kitchen, laughing like schoolgirls, staring into an iPhone propped on the counter.
I peer over their shoulders and am introduced to the African pop star, Meiway
(prounced “may-way”). One of his music videos plays on the tiny screen. I ask them
what he sings about and the girls burst into laughter. Irene says, “He sings
about how he likes the shape of a woman,” and waves her hands in the air, drawing
the outline of a cello.

Emily pours me a glass of Amarula. It does taste like
Baileys, but with carmel overtones. She tells me, “One day when I was living in
South Africa, the teacher came into class and announced something in Setswana.
My classmates began singing happily and drumming their desks. That is not my
language so I didn’t understand the announcement. A friend explained that the
elephants in the forests nearby had been eating the overripe and fermenting
amarula fruit and essentially, getting drunk. We were sent home for our
protection. My friend said as we left, ‘Do you want to get stepped on by a
drunk elephant?’”

“I got sent home for heavy snow,” I laugh, “you got sent home
for drunken elephants.”

Small children – all boys, run through the rooms playing and
yelling and being scolded by parents. I note with interest that any adult
disciplines any child, no matter whose child it is. I mention this to a parent
and she smiles and nods knowingly, “It takes a village to raise a child.”

Irene shows me the clothing she has been making and selling
in the shop she and Emily opened in downtown Noblesville, Love’s Hangover; skirt wraps in Indian-inspired
fabrics and colorful t-shirt with impressionistic images of the African
continent sewn on them. (photo at left: me & Emily)

The food is served and I get my first taste of goat, in the
goat stew and in roasted goat. It’s marvelous. There is Pilau (rice), Kachumbari salad, roasted
chicken, and the chapatis bread. During dinner George and I talk
about his family. He is a pro-business, pro-education man and that inspiration
shows on his children. His son, Emily’s brother Dennis is a former I.T. specialist.
“I told my son,” George says, “being an I.T. worker is like being a bus driver.
Someone tells you where to drive and you drive there. But wouldn’t you rather
be the man who hires the bus driver, tells him where to go, how many busses to
buy, secures the gasoline?”

Dennis is no longer an I.T. worker. He went back to school
and got his masters. He’s a financial analyst now.

This African family does not generally give Christmas gifts,
but with sympathy for a new generation being raised in America with American
customs, they decided on a simple gift exchange. They plotted everyone’s birth
date on a calendar and then each person gives a gift to the person with the
next birth date.

I’m feeling like an interloper, so as they begin their
exchange I back quietly into the kitchen and watch the gift giving from the
stove, sipping my Amarula. But soon Emily’s soft-spoken, lanky brother Allan
appears before me with a bundle wrapped in the multi-colored Sunday newspaper
comics. “This is for you,” he says. “We wanted you to have something.”
Surprised, I gratefully unwrap the paper to reveal two hand-carved faces of an
African man and woman.

My eyes follow the faces of this beautiful, welcoming family
I’ve met today and peacefully acknowledge that of some 20 people here, I’m the
only white person, and of the 15 or so adults, I’m one of only two born in
America. There has never been a time in my life in this country when I’ve been
in such a drastic racial and national-origin minority. And I’m in a typical
house in a typical subdivision in Noblesville.

And I love that it feels completely normal and that I feel
so welcome.

Tuesday, January 1, 2013

Chatting with a friend recently about child rearing, she
mentioned the Harlow monkey studies from the 1960s. Baby monkeys were isolated
from their mothers at birth and placed with two fake surrogate mothers, one
made of wire that dispensed milk, and another snuggly doll made of soft cloth
that gave no milk. Most monkeys spent their time with the soft mother,
preferring comfort to food.

Snuggling is powerful, and where children are concerned, I
think it's a 2-way street.

When we hold children we tell ourselves that we do it for
them, but sometimes, and maybe more than we ever realize, we do it for
ourselves. The nurturing comforts the parent, too.

My first child was colicky on a Biblical scale, going hours
each evening for weeks wailing as if in agony. Often when he’d screamed himself
to sleep, I held him with a desperation that is hard to describe - part
exhaustion, part relief, but also comfort. Comfort from the fear that I wasn’t
cut out to parent to a child with such unknowable needs, comfort in knowing
we’d survived another day, and yes, nurturing comfort simply in having that
sleeping baby laid across my chest.

Sometimes for the sake of mental health I needed to put that
sleeping baby down, make myself a stiff drink, and just sit in darkened silence.
But more often then not I held him close for a while as he slept. Not just for
him, but for me, too.

There’s something primal about the feeling of that little
heart beating against yours. Maybe it’s as simple as feeling, “I’ve been given
this sometimes beautiful, sometimes terrifying job to do as a parent and at least
in this moment everything is okay.”

But of course it’s not just that. It’s something more.

In the same conversation, my friend told me about a survey
of single moms that showed they tend to sleep in the same bed with their
children at a far, far higher rate than parents in families with both a mother
and father. And not just small children, but those aged 5-10 years old. That
simple fact raises fascinating questions. I think it’s a complicated subject,
but it's fair to say that to some degree these moms are doing it for
themselves. They’re lonely and doing a difficult job that can be overwhelming
even with help from a spouse. With so much on your shoulders alone, with no one
else having your back, knowing your little charge is close at hand brings peace
of mind. But I think it's also about the adult's need for nurturing human contact. To be loved
in return.

We all need affection and comfort, no matter what our age, and
when it comes from a child it comes with innocent simplicity and no ulterior
motives.

When my youngest, Sally was a tot I worked a grueling
schedule that often consumed my patience and cluttered my headspace. Sometimes
when I came home from work I gathered her up in my arms, put music on the stereo and danced in
the living room with that little girl's arm wrapped around my neck. I suspect I
got way more from it than she did.

And because of that hectic schedule, I wasn’t always as
patient as I might have been. I raised three children and cannot count the
times a child ran to be in my arms because they were stung by a bee, or fell
off their bike, or was mistreated by a friend. They came to me for comfort, but
sometimes I dispensed hugs like mundane doses of aspirin, “Yeah, yeah, I know
you’re hurt and I’m sorry, now give me a hug and go play, I’ve got work to do.”

So yeah, it’s not all comfort and joy. I’ve been reminded of
all of this as new children have appeared in my life.

I went camping with my friend Myra and her 4-year-old son,
Paul this past summer. On the first night in a tent in the North Carolina
mountains I fell asleep with Paul’s raspy breath humming between his mother and
me. I awoke in the middle of the night to find him sleeping sideways, his head
resting on Myra’s rear like a pillow and his feet rested on my backside like he
was kicked back in a Lazy Boy.

I sat up to consider this sorry arrangement and his eyes
suddenly opened. I said, “Dude, this ain’t gonna work,” gripped him under one
arm, and gently straightened him out against his sleeping mom. He quickly
drifted off to that mysterious sleep of childhood, the drug-like sleep most
adults can only recapture with drugs.

The next day we biked around Asheville on a perfect sunny
Saturday and pretty much wore ourselves out exploring the city and hauling Paul
behind us in a 2-wheeled carrier. On a late afternoon tour of the city in an
open-air trolley, Paul fell asleep on Myra’s lap. Coming down a hill near the
entrance to the Biltmore she rested her head on the wooden windowsill, her hand
cradling her sleeping son’s head. I sensed in that moment it wasn’t just him
recharging his batteries, she too was finding a sliver of peace at the end of a
stressful day spent tending a busy child in an unfamiliar city. The 4-year-old
dervish was at rest and his mother was absorbing peace and comfort from it
happening against her chest as the sites of the mountain town flew by.

Often now when I visit their house for dinner, I bring a
pile of children’s books to read to Paul. In truth I brought the books to help his mother, so I could distract Paul when she’s stressed and cooking, but eventually
found he and I enjoy the time spent snuggled together on the couch reading.
Again, I’m not sure who gets more out of it, him or me.

On a Saturday a couple weeks before Christmas I kept Paul
and his 6-year-old cousin Luella while Myra and her sister worked. I set up a little
workshop in the garage and we built 2 birdhouses as Christmas gifts for them to
give their moms. My oldest, Cal, that former colicky baby, now 24, helped out.

Later, I settled them in front of the movie Ponyo and I
tried to nap on the couch. As I started to fade, Luella appeared beside me and
asked, “Is it okay if I lay down on top of you?” “Sure,” I lied. She climbed up
and stretched out, lounging on me like I was a couch cushion, and went on watching
the movie. I tried, pointlessly to drift back to sleep with a squirmy child
lying on top of me. Eventually Luella poked my ribs with a finger. “Hey,” she
said, “you’re really snuggly.”

“I get that a lot.” I grumbled back.

My own girl, Sally had just turned 18. Been a long time
since that little girl and I held each other, dancing. It was a good reminder
to open my eyes, stay awake and enjoy the movie with Luella and Paul. When a
child wants to hold you close, you really ought to have a pretty damn good
reason not to go along.

True, when we hold children, we’re sometimes not doing it
for them, but for ourselves. And that’s perfectly normal, and perfectly right.

Followers

About Me

The Contrarian's work has appeared in the Noblesville Daily Ledger, The Noblesville Times, NUVO Newsweekly, The Indianapolis Eye (web-based), The Noblesville Current, and at www.dailyyonder.com. He is the co-founder of the literary journal, the Polk Street Review, where his stories also appear. His novel, Stardust was published in 2002 and has just been republished again under the title "Noblesville," by River's Edge Media. His 2nd novel, The Salvage Man, was released August of 2015 by River's Edge. Kurt is a former school teacher and a Realtor.